Grey Light of Noon

The shadows of dirt stained glass and sewerage filled air suits well this meagre apartment. Filth and grime vie with the evidence of enthusiastic participation in the company self aggrandizement and propaganda games,preventing any clear understanding of it's form and composure. It would be easy to despise the occupants for their lack of cleanliness or intelligence; better far than the pity they would receive in some quarters. I grant them the honour of non-existence in my mind, as indeed they have ceased to exist in the corporeal. Once you erase from the physical, it is always best to do similar from the consciousness.

The glow cast by my illegitimately harmless cigarette casts an unbecoming ruddiness across the young agent's face.

"You ask the usual question asked by weak minds."

His face twitches slightly; the blush batters it's way past his carefully trained composure. You can teach them to ignore many things, but a trained mind will always respond to the suggestion of a lack of intelligence

"No, I mean no insult, though you will doubtless take it as one. The weakness of your mind is the fault of your age and inexperience; the strength of mine is prize earned at a far, far, greater cost than you would be willing yet to pay.”"

Another breath through the sweet herb. I pay an Ebon trader a lot of credits for a vice that will soothe without damaging or captivating, but then again, money has not been an issue for quite a while.

"Put it from your mind for the moment, Agent Stern. We are here, after all, to do a job."

I watch as he forces his face into repose by force of will. Talented for one so young. He may do well, all things being equal. I notice he quite deliberately averts his gaze from the bodies neatly laid out near the wall, but he would be useless in his current role without at least some humanity.

When they becomes as stones, then they cease to be useful, but are far from truly useless. You wouldn't talk philosophy to your pistol; neither would you attempt to defeat powersuits with words. The other two in the room, one glued to a comm., the other to his rifle sight, are such as this. I would not call them men anymore, for that implies some humanity, such as Stern has shown. They are now ambulatory, vocally programmable tools. You give them unsavoury and, usually, violent orders, and the things you wish to accomplish become reality. Other realities abruptly cease.

To be quite honest I prefer to do the unsavoury myself than to use these type of assets. There are however skills sometimes required that I have never had the inclination to acquire. Times like this. For example, despite practice, I am still unable to sit in one position with my eye clamped to a rifle scope for two days without eventually sitting in a pool of my own urine. The one on the left had apparently done just that with no sign of physical discomfort. Quite remarkable. Quite repellent.

“Sir, when do we move? There are obviously insurgents in residence, what are we waiting for?”

I stub my cigarette out into a metal container made from a 17mm rifle cartridge and placed it in my breast pocket.

“Stern, impatience is common among the young, but all the more prevalent among the dead. Operative Grey has his orders; he will let us know when the time is upon us.”

Stern lights one of his own more sinister cigarettes with a Captain Contract lighter, grimacing over the discomfort the first drag causes him. Without comment, I watch him stand and begin to pace along one wall, careful to avoid our impromptu morgue and the small pool of light from the window. His uncertain steps form a rhythmic counterpoint to the dripping of water in the kitchen, a woodblock and steel drum solo in impatience and inevitability. Carefully I hide the smile that thought brings; he could only interpret it badly as a stain upon his professional bearing.

I remember well myself, being young and forthright. Had I not been inducted into my current position, I surely would be the bitter and unfulfilled man this one was destined to die as. Could have been and might be are phrases that only the foolish allow themselves. I am myself: nothing more, nothing less. It would be pointless to pretend otherwise anymore.

“The situation has occurred, sir.”

Words spoken quietly and without emotion. I could not even be sure if he would do anything other than continue had I but ignored his statement. However, I rose without haste and turned to Stern.

“Come with me. Agent Grey, execute the entry plan, then wait for my orders.”

The sound of Sterns quick breathing and the slide of his as-yet unused ‘ten’ snapping back and forth are an annoyance as I thought about the situation we were about to enter. The hallway was an echo of the squalor in unit three one seven, a sensual cacophony of dirt, water, gloom and urine. Three doors down a door opened two inches and I could see the eyes of someone short and pale peering out ever so briefly. Someone elderly, perhaps or maybe a child. Almost as soon as it was opened, the door is slammed shut with the thunk of waterlogged compressed wood-fibre. Not quickly enough I fear.

We ascend the crumbling concrete stairs along with a few rats for a few floors until we come to the rusting metal door to the mid-building walkway. I brush the faded yellow “Do Not Use” and “Danger” signs aside and turn the latch. Soundlessly the door swung back on newly maintained hinges to reveal the cold light of Mort. The walkway, brown with running rivulets of rust and more broken than a fresh recruit on Dante, stretched out the thirty metres between buildings. Instantly the blowing rain soaked my suit with filth sodden water. Stern hunched his shoulders, trying to find some cover from the unpleasantly cold sensation, but I just accepted that I was going to be wet. I’ve never found any way to truly avoid a soaking everyday and the effort of trying to avoid one was simply not worth it. Take a pill now, have a hot shower later.

Across the way from us I could see several darker shapes in the darkness of a unglazed window, probably armed and armoured to the teeth. Their type usually was, but they were about to find out how little that mattered when associating with certain people that SLA liked not one little bit. As movement showed some reaction to our appearance, I reached into my pocket and pressed the contact of the small transceiver I carried.

The noise was strange, rather like the crackling of hail on an outside stairway or the noise of corn popping. The building across from us, all forty seven stories, seemed to have suddenly given itself a shake. The dust and detritus of years was standing out from it in a brick coloured cloud that mingled with the rain. Far below us, the merry tinkle of glass could be heard from some inhabited level giving up it’s supercooled protection in sonic energy. The dark shapes in the window gained new form in the shape of mist that appeared briefly in the downpour, as a ghostly rouge billowing forth and just as quickly fading. I knew without looking that the same was happening on all four sides of this dilapidated brownstone pile. It was almost as though what had been so plain and ugly had suddenly gained style and beauty. I marveled at this thought for fully half a minute before it stops as suddenly as if it had never begun. Only then did I realise the tremendous roar of noise by it absence.

“The building is pacified, sir. Be aware there may be some structural damage.”

Unheeded, Stern’s cigarette has fallen, rain soaked, from his trembling lips, while his hands were pressed comically to his ears. His face was a charming study of astonishment, nicely vying with the sky for grayness. Had I failed to mention the involvement of the 5th Infantry (Dirt Dogs), Company Militia? How irresponsible of me. Even such as me need their humourous moments.

I click the communicator toggle. Time to finish the job.

“Secondary units begin.”

Far below, the lithe predatory black shapes of Karma’s dogs dart from the surrounding buildings, like evil homing missiles shot from an Kilcopter’s missile pod. I have always liked these creatures and use them whenever possible. So gracefully deadly. Human beings have nor singular purpose and are build for adaptability. My hounds are build with one purpose in mind, and it give them a stark beauty. Of course, they are also amazingly efficient.

“Come Stern.”

I avoid looking at his face in order to miss then apprehension that undoubtedly flits across it and walk forward, stepping surely on the encrusted metal. The young agent falls further and further behind me as he gingerly avoids the most shaky looking areas. He will learn in time that there is no controlling one’s destiny. Hopefully before his demise.

The door on the far side of the walkway now has an interesting shape, so much so that I make a note to send someone back to collect it for decoration on my apartment walls. The combined impact of many supersonic leads slugs has blasted free it’s coating of rust and what little paint was left, leaving a freshly polished look. Combined with the multitude of holes and divots, it looks like a colander that decided the domestic life was not for it and wandered over to the other side of the kitchen looking for excitement.

Of course, it’s about a useful as a door now as celery. Pulling it open, I look into a world of billowing dust criss-crossed by a veritable tangle of light shafts. The door wasn’t the only colandic escapee it seems. The smell is virtually indescribable, a cocktail of anything you could find in a rotting tenement and then break open: concrete, refuse, cooking supplies, people, sewers. There is liquid everywhere, what liquid precisely I could not tell you. I’m sure you can take a few guesses. Just mix them all together and you’d have it.

The first group of bodies are in a room near the door, the one whose window overlooked the walkway. The usual really. They remind me of the remains of some Company Militia I viewed recently, the ones who had handled the Thresher anti-personnel mine removal improperly. Now it was the result of some renegades failing to handle SLA properly. My top lip pulled back in a mirthless smile at that one, I have to admit.

Behind me, Stern struggled to keep his stomach contents contained. It’s one thing to see a dead body and know that it was once alive and quite another to see an aerosolised body and know it was once human shaped. His education was continuing apace today. I think perhaps his father might not have approved, but he was the one who wanted his boy’s career fast tracked. Perhaps SLA’s idea for him and his father were not entirely convergent, but then, that’s the way these things are.

I continued through the floor to the interior stairwell, as I knew what we were after lay in one of the sub-basements. There were nasty examples of the Militia boys handiwork to be found everywhere. It never ceases to amaze me the penetrating power of those 20mm fixed emplacement guns, no matter how many times I deploy them. I wouldn’t be surprised to find there were Militia casualties caused by super-penetrating rounds going right through the building, but as one of my superiors once told me, it’s better to kill a few to save a million. My own private thought was that in Mort one might do better killing a million and saving a few, but I tended to suppress such high level cynicism. Cynicism is only appreciable to a certain extent before it becomes simply maudlin after all.

Stern managed to hold on to his lunch until he stepped on the very small hand that lay cooling in the hallway. Privately, I was glad he had finally got it over with. The suspense was beginning to irritate me.

The interior stairwell had escaped major structural damage I was glad to note. Several floors below us I could here the sound of someone either very lucky, or very stupid, attempting to resist pacification. Sporadic fire with light arms accompanied by a savage sound of growling and the tearing of muscle fibre. Not a very nice sound when I come think of it. Stern, pale faced and clutching his 603, stood with the railing between him and the gap, trying to see down there.

“I think that must be one of the Domino Dogs, sir. Should we aid them?”

Just when I was beginning to like the young man.

“If the hounds can’t take care of it, I doubt your paper weight will help. Just wait for a few moments.”

As I stopped speaking, the firing ended, punctuated by a strangled crunch. It doesn’t take that much imagination to see that scene in your minds eye. Delightful creatures. I heard Stern’s startled gasp as I started walking down the stairs. This is the problem with undercooked agents, they aren’t aware of certain little operating facts that no textbook can drive home harder than bitter experience. Time for an educational moment.

The dogs appeared calmly walking up the stairs, their glistening black skin now covered with brick dust mixed with various fluids. The first stopped moving when he saw me, its calmly analytical eyes scanning my features quickly, before looking past me. I love this moment. Parting it’s tooth-lined jaws it emitted a sound somewhat like a cross between a feral DAC and a very angry Shaktarian reptile. Apparently the Karma designers spent a good few months compiling the noises it could make for their maximum psychological effect, evidently not time wasted.

“Stern, please don’t point the pistol at the pacification unit and make sure your badge is visible. Uncertainty makes them nervous.”

Actually, that was a lie. Domino dogs are always either certain you are SLA or a target and they give you very little time to change their minds. Luckily if inexperience was a problem for the agent, mental agility was not. As quickly as the hounds menacing attitude had appeared, it dissolved. Calmly, it turned away, and padded up the stairs past us, undoubtedly continuing the sweep pattern given to it by it’s handler. They are nothing if not methodical.

I continued my descent through around forty floors of destruction and death. By and large, the most common cause of death was high powered penetrating trauma, with quite a few savagings by the hounds, and, I was interested to note, one case of concrete poisoning. Apparently the dogs had frightened one poor soul who, after surviving a bombardment one normally only encountered on war worlds, had jumped over the edge of the stairwell. I idly wondered how they’d characterise his death for the records: gravity, dog or fear?

I knew we were close when I stepped in the pile of black jelly. Immediately I stopped. The texture of it was instantly discernable as different to the rest of the viscera lying around. This was nothing that ever was meant to flow. Even the shape of it was vaguely humanoid, if one was to look closely enough.

“Agent Stern, I want you to walk behind me. If I instruct you to turn away, or to leave the area, you are to do so immediately?”

His face looked troubled.

“What if you need backup, sir. How can I support you properly in that manner?”

“As in many things, there is no explaination you would understand. These are direct orders, to break them will lead to unpleasant consequences. Is that understood?”

Still non-comprehending, he nodded his assent. I hoped he meant it, for his sake.

Beyond the evidence lay a large door to one of the sub-basement areas. A spent round had caroomed it’s way off the metal, scoring a large gash into it, but leaving it largely intact. It gave way to my pushing had with a faint but penetrating squeal that echoed into the gloominess of the basment.

The evidence that this building had been around for a few centuries lay in the gloomy tunnel beyond the door, a succession of old-fashioned storage areas made of wire partitioning and secured by padlock. Nowadays SLA buildings either had no basement storage at all or if they did they were strong rooms with walls of reo’d concrete and steel doors. Wire and cheap locks wouldn’t stop a kid these days, let alone a determined burglar.

For a good hundred metres the corridoor led off, dark except for a faintly lit area at it’s end.

“Shut the door. Let’s keep the shooting gallery one way, shall we.”

Ignoring the sound of Stern trying to shut the door without making any noise, I walked along the corridor, past long empty cages and piles of debris. Yes, I was walking into an obviously dangerous situation with no armour and leaving my backup as far behind as possible. As I said, fate decides for you, whether you want it to or not. It’s a case of riding the wave of possibility where ever it will take you and just using fine adjustment to turn the resulting situation your way. Ask an Ebon.

Unfortunately for me, Stern hadn’t yet learnt that lesson.

So, to set the scene.

Large concrete room. One weak bulb lighting the area, the gusts of air that flow through here setting it gently swinging. A table, scarred by age and use. Two men.

One is easily dismissed as a beetlebrowed gun for hire, probably Darknight or some other forgettable enemy of no note. His heavy set oriental features are set in the permanently distrustful expression adopted by the belligerently suprised. He is garbed in some sort of non-company armour covered in small stickers advertising a fast food company.

The other is a face I’ve seen before. Slight of build, pale features. Clothing that has obviously been cast off, a shirt bearing the logo of some off-world subsidiary. No weapons. No surprise, just an expression of melancholy.

The first is easily dismissed.

The second is one of the few men in this existance I fear.

“Stern..”

I manage to get out, intending to order him away, but the thuggish one suprises me with the speed of his decision and action. From under the table he pulls out a weapon of his own, letting fly with a long burst. The sound of the large submachinegun in the confined area is loud enough to hurt the ears, seemingly louder than the militia’s massed firepower earlier. I can briefly see the circular ring of smoke and fire, shaped like that wonderful Ebon glyph of the snake endlessly swallowing it’s tail, before it becomes a confused mass of billowing smoke.

It was suprising enough for someone to out draw me, mentally or otherwise, that I briefly lost my concentration.

The second shot misfired, some dirt accumulated in the unkempt barrel causing the bullet to decelerate from the subsonic in slightly less that a millisecond. As it slowed, the next bullet in the burst caught up with it, plowing into the first with enough force to deform them both completely, bulging the very barrel. This process continued, round after round, until the line of now solid lead reached the breach. The receiver then exploded backwards through contestant number one’s face.

It had all taken no more than two seconds, but the younger man was gone, which surprised me not at all. I didn’t bother looking. If he wanted a confronatation he would still be there and I was as glad as anything that he wasn’t. I just wanted to know what he was doing there, especially with a bunch of amateur revolutionaries. It made no sense.

“Sir…”

I turned at the sound of pain in his voice. Stern lay just beyond the light clutching his belly, a red wash flowing over his fingers and staining the impeccable fibre of his suit. He must have caught up to me faster than I thought.

“Don’t worry Agent, that’s easily fixed. I told you to stand behind me for good reason.”

His face looked like he had seen a ghost, an expression of panic and fear more terrible than shock and pain would allow for.

“No…sir….look at your chest. I was standing behind you”

His finger rose from the wound it clutched, pointing at me tremulously. I looked down at where he indicated, irritated at his odd behaviour. I had just lost an enemy whose potence I feared and he wanted to play look and see?

Then I noticed the hole in my suit jacket, a ragged puncture, edges slightly melted and scorched, still producing a light smoke trail. The matching hole in my shirt revealed pale, totally unmarked, flesh.

“How unfortunate.”

I knew without needing to look there would be a similar hole in the back of my suit, it’s position characteristic of a bullets trajectory. Walking over to the still twitching corpse without a face, I pulled from him the inevitable side arm that once rode in a man’s belt and now kept company with red meat. A Blitzer, worn with age, but still a fine piece of weaponry.

I was glad it didn’t have to be a CAF pistol, or my bare hands. This way, there was some dignity, some honour. I doubt his father expected him to be fast-tracked this far down the SLA timeline. Recruitment to retirement, all in the space of one day.

“What are you doing, sir?”

I raised the sidearm level with my eyes, staring at the familiar face until it ceased to be part of a human and became merely a target.

“But, sir! Please…NO!”

The hammer pulled back with a thick healthy click, revealing the dull golden brass of the cartridge like a downtown table dancer revealing a flash of skin.

“But WHY?”

I stopped. This was not his fault. I owed at least some explanation to a man whose only fault was the fact he would never be able to forget.

“You asked me a question earlier today. You asked me why I could kill that family with such detachment and lack of emotion. I gather you thought, at the time, I must be some sort of psychopath, the sort of Bethlehem approved nutcase that SLA uses as tools with wild abandon these days.”

“I am not, I assure you.”

“You could have been a fine agent, Stern, and because of that I am going to give you an answer to your question, though it pains me greatly.”

“Throughout my career, I have followed a piece of wisdom given to me by my father. Unlike yours, he was a nobody. It’s easy to have high moral values and judgemental attitudes when your future meals are assured; equally easy to disregard them entirely when the situation is reversed. I watched my father walk over anyone or anything to survive, every day of my childhood. Being a child, I easily absorbed the values of others and saw my father as a bad man. I disliked him greatly for a time, I’m pained to admit. It took therapy to get over that. Then one day, as I watched him batter a young man to death for the sake of ten Unis, he said something that has served me well for nearly twenty years. Do you know what that was?”

My finger tightened on the trigger. Sterns eyes widened in fear and his lips trembled. The unmistakable smell of evacuated bowels arose form him. With an admirable force of will he shook his head slightly.

“Better you than me.”

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Chris Foster

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